


Never Been This Swept Away

by estalita11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, First Kiss, John is pretty damn smart, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, but they're both still idiots, kinda sappy, likely not series 4 compliant, mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estalita11/pseuds/estalita11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after TAB, Sherlock visits his brother to definitely not apologize about earlier and ends up finally learning a few things that would have been nice knowing about months ago. Mycroft never wants to deal with lovestruck idiots ever again.  Johnlock of course</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Been This Swept Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my first Sherlock story. I started this immediately after watching TAB for the first time but ran into a roadblock before finally finishing it recently. I just had this urge to write an aftermath fic with more brotherly bonding and Johnlock. I don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine, let me know if you spot any embarrassing errors. Titles are hard so I stole a line from Faith Hill's Breathe. Enjoy!

He waited until later that night, after John and Mary had already gone.  He felt that itching need to tell John, _No…stay,_ but he kept it to himself, like always.  Now was not the time, anyway.

It was bordering on midnight when he walked out the door of 221B, stepping carefully so as not to alert Mrs. Hudson.  He had to walk down the street a little ways before he could find a cab, sliding into the worn leather seat and wrapping his coat tightly around himself once he had.  He was tired in way that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep, though there was that too.  Emotionally drained is how most would describe it, and he tentatively admitted to the affliction. 

Sherlock watched London go by outside the window, for once not really thinking of anything in particular.  He simply didn’t want to.  All he wanted to do was be grateful that it _was_ London he was seeing and not the cold landscape of Serbia. 

It didn’t take long to reach his destination, what with much of the city tucked away in their homes.  He paid the cabby and exited the cab, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.  He was still intentionally a street or two away from his goal, but it wouldn’t take long to walk, especially with the route he took through side alleys and backyards.  This was as far from the rough side of London as one could get; he had little need to worry about running into anyone unscrupulous.

He climbed the fence of one lavish home and slipped through the shadows to the rear door.  From his pocket he pulled out a single gold key, one that fit perfectly in the keyhole, and unlocked the door with barely a _snick_ as the tumblers turned. 

Sherlock knew exactly how far to open the door before it would start to squeak, which was just enough for him to slip sideways into the house.  He knew which parts of the aged floorboards to avoid stepping on and cause them to creak.  He knew the layout of the house, and that a right and then a left would lead him to the kitchen.  He paused at its threshold.

“If you’re here about the pardon, no need to worry.  It’s already been done.”

The tone of Mycroft’s voice was somewhere between his typical highbrow annoyance and the exhaustion he himself felt.  Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped forward again, this time not bothering to prevent the scrape of his shoes against the kitchen tiles.     

“Well thank god for that,” he said, falling back into the caustic tone he usually used with Mycroft.  He instantly regretted the seemingly ungrateful remark, and cleared his throat again.  “Thank you,” he said, far more neutrally, though that made him want to wince too.  Look at what he had become, expressing gratitude to Mycroft. 

Mycroft looked up at him from where he sat at the grey marble counter.  He was still dressed in the outfit from earlier today, sans jacket and waistcoat with his sleeves rolled up, but his tie was still cinched tightly against his throat.  There was a glass sitting in front of him filled with some vile looking green beverage.  Not plum pudding.  He stared at Sherlock with that searching gaze of his, and Sherlock wondered what he saw.  Lately he’d been beginning to think he wouldn’t even recognize himself in a mirror.  What did his brother see in him now?

“Why are you here, Sherlock?”

“I,” Sherlock croaked, completely mortified by the sound of his voice.  “I don’t know, thought I’d pop ‘round for some cake.  Got some?”  Inside his pocket, Sherlock was fiddling with his phone, flipping it over and over in an undeniable fidgeting motion. 

One of Mycroft’s brows lifted, the left one, indicating he was both admonishing and surprised by the request.  Without a word he rose from his seat and marched to the fridge, opening it up and disappearing behind the door before backing out with a dessert tin.

“No cake, I’m afraid.  But I do have a rather lovely blackberry and apple pie, if that’ll do.”  He set it on the counter and proceeded to rummage through the nearby cabinets for plates.

“You do realize that just because it has fruit in it doesn’t mean it’s a diet food,” Sherlock murmured in a half-hearted attempt at one of his usual jibes to Mycroft’s waistline.    

“Yes, well,” Mycroft stated, unperturbed, “it was a rather trying day, I do believe.  Shall I serve you a slice?”

Normally Sherlock would have declined because _ugh, food,_ but he shrugged instead in silent acceptance.  This time both of Mycroft’s eyebrows rose.  He was really surprised now, and a little concerned.  Sherlock circumvented the counter, almost timidly and still feeling a bit out of his element, stopping to pull a pair of forks from one of the drawers.  He watched passively as his brother sliced the pie and dished out a slice for each of them.  Sherlock held out one of the forks for Mycroft, who stared at it for a moment before taking it.

“Thank you,” he said courteously.  Sherlock merely nodded, and sat down in the empty stool next to Mycroft’s.  He wasn’t truly hungry, and he dragged his fork over the crumble topping as Mycroft took a demure bite, starting with the crust as was his habit since childhood.  Sherlock had always scooped the filling out first. 

“I have to ask,” Sherlock announced abruptly.  “The broadcast today, that wasn’t you, was it?”

Mycroft set his fork tines down on his plate and interlaced his fingers together in front of him on the counter.  “Sherlock, if I thought I could convincingly stage Moriarty’s return in order to spare your exile, I would have done it.  But in this case, I’m afraid I cannot admit to such a feat.  I am under too much scrutiny currently.  But I thought you knew that, the way you spoke about it today.”

Sherlock sighed.  “I had hoped I was wrong, is all.  Moriarty the person _is_ dead, but Moriarty the concept is not.  He’s a _virus,”_ Sherlock growled, remembering what his mind had told him earlier. _“_ Don’t worry Mycroft, I’ll handle it.” 

Mycroft tipped his nose up into the air.  “England is depending on you.”

 _Like always,_ Sherlock thought.  No rest for the weary.  Sherlock couldn’t stop his shoulders from curling forward with the imagined weight of the contest before him, and he felt like a stooped old man.   He loved the work, but right now his two years away from London—away from _John_ —for the sole purpose of ridding the world of Moriarty’s influence felt like a complete waste of time.  His homecoming had been entirely disappointing, and this new game was one he wasn’t really looking forward to.  It would be a distraction, nothing more.  It had long ceased to be fun.

“I would have gotten you back, somehow,” Mycroft murmured, picking up his fork again. 

“I know,” Sherlock murmured back.  He only half believed it. 

The two brothers sat in silence for several minutes, Mycroft taking a few more small bites and Sherlock nibbling the crumbs from his fork.  Mycroft finished his piece and placed his fork back on the plate.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”  His voice was soft, that rare timbre that Sherlock had heard on the plane earlier.  His gut clenched at the reminded.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock intoned flatly.  As if to prove it, he dug his fork into his slice of pie and then stuffed the large bite into his mouth.  It was actually quite good, but it settled like a rock in his stomach after the swallowed. 

“Yes,” Mycroft mused, “because you always come visit me for a late night snack.”

Sherlock felt his nose crinkle as he scowled.  “Don’t worry, I won’t make it a habit to eat all your precious food,” he said, staring hard at his plate.

“Sherlock.” 

The tone of Mycroft’s voice had Sherlock looking up to face him.  The corners of his brother’s eyes were creased with deep frown lines and his lips were pressed tightly together.  It was a look Sherlock was familiar with but hadn’t really seen in a long time, at least not to the extent Mycroft wore it now, so transparently.  He remembered it from times of fevers, his broken arm at the age of 10 after falling out of a tree, from nights spent on dirty mattresses as cocaine and other illicit substances surged through his veins.  Something delicate snapped inside Sherlock and boiled over like baking soda mixed with vinegar.  He stabbed his fork into the pie hard enough to nearly dent the plate beneath it. 

“You’re always saying ‘caring’s not an advantage,’ spouting it at me like its God’s law since I was little and yet you are the biggest bloody hypocrite I know.  Why do you treat me like an exception?  Why don’t you just say ‘sod it all’ and leave me to succeed or fail on my own?”

 _Why do you care?_ is what he’s truly asking.  Why does Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, allow himself the pressure point of caring for his enormously reckless sibling?  Why does he say things like, _“I’ll be there for you,”_ and “ _You’re loss would break my heart”_?  It was driving Sherlock insane. 

“You’re my brother,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly.  Sherlock scowled even harder.

“So what?” he snapped.  “How has that ever benefited you?  I insult you constantly, make your life immeasurably more difficult, and one time I replaced your shampoo with hair dye.”

“I was well aware that you’d done that,” Mycroft stated mildly.

“Then why did you still attend grandfather’s funeral with blue hair?” Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft’s lips quirked up on one side in something of a nostalgic grin.  “It made you smile again.  You hadn’t done so since he’d gotten ill.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft with wide eyes.  His face paled and he wobbled in his seat, feeling with suddenness utterly exhausted as the day’s events finally caught up to him.  He might actually have fallen over if Mycroft hadn’t reached out and gripped his shoulder.

“Sorry.  I’m sorry,” Sherlock rasped.  “That’s why I’m here.  That’s what I wanted to tell you.” And it was true.  Sherlock was feeling something on the verge of guilt for making Mycroft relive those nights from years ago.  On the other hand, Sherlock was annoyed with Mycroft for placing so much blame on himself, for still seeing him as a person incapable of his own choices.  “But I also want to tell you you’re moronic.”  

Mycroft huffed in mild exasperation but his hand’s grip on Sherlock’s shoulder never slackened.   

“We both know I was going to die,” Sherlock said in an even, reasoning manner.  He remembered a conversation they had nearly a week ago.  It felt like a lifetime ago.

_“You’ve made a right mess of it, haven’t you Sherlock?”_

_“Piss off, Mycroft.”_

_“You don’t have a foot to stand on for such proclamations, brother dear.”_

_“I did what I had to do.”_

_“You didn’t have to do anything.  You chose to shoot a man’s brains out in full sight of witnesses.  I am influential, Sherlock, but there’s only so much I am capable of.”_

_“I did what I had to do.”_

_Silence._

_“What do you want from me, Sherlock?”_

_Silence._

_“I’d rather die than remain here.”_

_Silence._

_“I think that can be arranged.”_

Sherlock drew back outside of himself.  “What was the point of dragging it out?” he said.  “I was…I was tired, Mycroft.  The plane wasn’t supposed to turn around.  You and…and John weren’t supposed to see me.”

Mycroft stayed quiet for a moment, but his hand remained where it was, holding Sherlock up.  “Sherlock, I told you I wasn’t angry with you.”

“No, because you blamed yourself.  That’s stupid.”

“I feared for you and for your wellbeing,” Mycroft responded.  “I had let the situation get to the point that you…”

“You should know by now you can’t control me and your influence on by behavior is paltry,” Sherlock cut in.  “I am not reasonable or able to be reasoned with, and you may be my older brother and cleverer in ways that I cannot be but I am a grown man and I feel—”  Here Sherlock cut himself off, taking a swooping breath before he went blue in the face, subtlety leaning into Mycroft’s support despite himself.  “I am tired of denying myself, Mycroft.  Things that used to be logical are no longer making sense to me.  I make illogical choices to you because those are the ones that do make sense.  I’m not like you and I _can’t_ be like you.  I know I’m largely a disappointment to you, but I find that I really. _Do. Not. Care._ You’re a hypocrite anyway.  I am what I am.  Stop interfering.”

“Lately you don’t seem capable of keeping yourself alive, Sherlock!” Mycroft said sharply.

“It is a risk, Mycroft, that I am willing to take.  I am not…I’m not suicidal.”  Reaching into an inner coat pocket, Sherlock pulled a baggie containing various sized pills, two vials of clear liquid with unequal amounts, and an unused syringe.  “What I took today was marginal compared to what I could have taken.”  He dropped it onto the counter, where the two brothers stared at it.  “I suppose I wasn’t ready to give up, yet.”

Mycroft released Sherlock’s shoulder and with the same hand reached out and touched his index finger to the plastic bag, clearly identifying the various substances to the list that Sherlock knew he still had, counting them.  All would be in order, save for a non-lethal but still large amount of items Sherlock had taken that day.  “And good thing too,” Mycroft affirmed once he came to the proper conclusion.

“Give me a little credit,” said Sherlock.

“Fine,” Mycroft agreed simply, and it almost sounded like an apology.

They were silent for several heartbeats after that before Mycroft broke it with one simple statement. 

“You should talk to John.”

Sherlock tensed up immediately, closing off.  “It would be unwanted.”

“So you admit that you have something to talk to him about,” Mycroft inferred smugly.

Sherlock scowled at having revealed himself like that.  But of course Mycroft probably knew everything already.  On occasion he had to cringe at himself for how transparent he’s been, except for the fact that he apparently wasn’t transparent enough for certain people.  Or at least, one particular person.

“Like I said, it would be unwanted,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

“’Not ready to give up’ is really living up to its promise, here.”  Mycroft tipped his head to the side and said, “Besides, how would you know?” in that same tone of voice that suggested _I know something you don’t know._

“It’s obvious.  He’s married.”

“Yes, and might I say very happily the past five and a half months if his presence at 221B has anything to say about it.”

Sherlock hadn’t said anything about the dullness of John’s wedding ring.  He didn’t wish to dwell much on the state of John’s marriage at all.  It would only induce a traitorous hope that things might be different.

“So there was a rough patch.  John forgave her.”  Inwardly, Sherlock cringed, remembering the times he himself suggested he do so. 

“How very loyal of him.  To his wife, at least.  Doesn’t seem very fair to his so called ‘best friend’ though, after said wife put a bullet in his chest,” Mycroft derided. 

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat.  “I convinced him to.  I am the one she has a problem with, not him.  He’s safe.”

Mycroft, placing his elbow on the table, propped his chin up with his hand and stared at Sherlock with exaggerated wistfulness.  “My baby brother has become the poster child for self-sacrifice.  Never would I have imagined.”  He sighed dramatically. 

“It’s called being _realistic,”_ snarled Sherlock.  “Even if I _talked_ to John there would be little chance of anything being different, except making everything terribly awkward.  I _despise_ awkward.”

“Are you so sure he’s safe with Miss Morstan?” Mycroft asked, obtusely ignoring Mary’s married designation.  “I am no expert, but it seems to me a bit of a faux pas to cause near-lethal damage to one’s husband’s best friend.  How much does she really care for him as opposed to her control over him?”

“I lived,” Sherlock asserted with forced nonchalance though he knew that was a flimsy answer.

“And, pray tell, did she ever apologize?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “As I was bleeding out.”

“Oh, splendid!” Mycroft gushed with fake enthusiasm.  “At least she was kind enough to apologize for your probable death.  I do wonder if she would still have said it if she knew of your future survival.  You know, they actually had to scratch out your time of death in the hospital records.  You’ve become very good at faking it, brother dear.”

Sherlock really had nothing to say in rebuttal.  Mycroft seemed to take that as indication now was a good time to change the subject.

“Where did you get the drugs?”

“Wiggins,” Sherlock replied a millisecond too quickly.

“Wiggins was never physically near you the past seven days.  Now tell me, who _gave_ you the drugs?” 

“You know where,” Sherlock answered with a sigh.  Mary had slipped them into his pocket on the tarmac.

“God, that woman,” Mycroft uttered lowly, face twisted in disgust as he dropped his earlier façade of any sort of tolerance for John’s wife.  He brought his hands up to massage his temples.  “This has gone on long enough.  The sooner we’re rid of her—”

“No, Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaimed heatedly.  “She’s John’s wife, the mother of his child.  I was the one to contact her.”

“Yes, you knew she would be all too willing to the task, didn’t you?” Mycroft scoffed.  “This complete disregard for your own welfare over that of John Watson’s will be the death of you, Sherlock.  Be reasonable, and think!  Is it because of your connection to John that she wants you gone, or something else entirely?  You know how I feel about coincidences.  If she really wanted to live a quiet, unobtrusive retirement from her previous career choice she could have picked anyone else than a man whose best friend just happened to be a famous detective recently come back from taking down an enormous crime syndicate.  And yet she married said man and had the same famous detective in the wedding party.  Tell me, Sherlock, was she ever Moriarty’s?  I know you’ve thought about it.”

Sherlock didn’t respond for a moment.  “I don’t know,” he finally answered honestly.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.  She would have known of him that much is clear.  Did she ever work for him?  Is she still working for him?  Haven’t a clue.”  Sherlock was frustratingly unable to get a clear read on Mary.  It was because he was too close.  He couldn’t see her clearly without his own emotions about John’s relationship to her clouding his judgement.  Was what he saw the truth or just what he wanted to see?  Mary didn’t give much away to begin with, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was because she was acting with honesty or had the skin of a chameleon.

“Somehow she gained Magnussen’s attention,” Mycroft pointed out.  “Why would he possibly be checking up on blackmail material for a single, seemingly innocuous nurse if she hadn’t done something to get his attention?  The bonfire night, if you recall, had originally been intended to draw her out.  More so, what did he want from her?  She should have been invisible, considering how well done her forgery had been.  Aren’t you at all curious?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Come now, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished.  “You’re simply choosing not to know.  Bit risky with your precious doctor mixed up in it.”

“She seemed keen enough to keep him.”

Mycroft rebutted with, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“John made his choice clear.  I will respect that.”  John had picked the family suburban life, even before all this with Magnussen had happened, and Sherlock would give him that, after all he had done.  As long as Mary kept her nose clean, Sherlock would swallow his objections.

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh.  “Dear Lord, brother mine.  What a number this doctor of yours has done on you, and you on he.   I do so hope that the phrase ‘love conquers all’ is a proper foretelling in this case.  It is simply exhausting being the middleman for the two of you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “What are you talking about?”

Mycroft smirked at him.  “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

“Figured out what?” snapped Sherlock.  His brain was cycling through multiple different processes, trying to determine that which his brother was referring to. If only Mycroft didn’t enjoy being so god dammed cryptic, but that was an impossible hope to wish for.

“Your complete underestimation of Dr. Watson’s loyalty to you has allowed you to be blind of the fact that he’s as eager to be rid of her as you are.”

“What?  No, don’t be stupid.  He made up with her, didn’t he?”

“On the surface, yes.  But only to keep an eye on her.  _Keep your enemies closer,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned at his brother.  “How do you know this?”

Mycroft laced his fingers together on the counter in from of them.  “Because John came to me while you were convalescing in hospital.  I was of course reluctant to see him, having figured out who exactly was the one who shot you, but he was insistent.  I had little interest in listening to him try and plead for the safety of his wife and her secrets.  As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered to worry.  Seeing you needing to be resuscitated not just once but twice due to a bullet wound his _wife_ put there had far more of an impact than you seemed to have imagined.  That’s possibly something to be said about your self-esteem, brother dear, or perhaps his acting skills,” Mycroft said with a wry eye.  “Anyway, you were indisposed, so I was his next best option.  The flash drive she’d given him was, of course, empty.” 

Yes, Sherlock had suspected it.  But John had flippantly said it wasn’t worth looking at the one time Sherlock had asked about it so Sherlock assumed he hadn’t wanted to look but— _ah, obviously—_ John had already looked at it and found it inconsequential.  Perhaps John’s ability to lie had improved.

“Mary Morstan’s past was very well forged,” Mycroft continued.  “At first glance all seems perfectly in order.  But bring attention to yourself?  Well, that’s just asking for someone to dig a little deeper.  No matter how careful one is with foraging a complete history doesn’t just magically make it true.  Some simple cross-referencing makes it obvious.  John wanted to know.  The problem was on where to start looking.”

“Why didn’t John tell me that he went to you?” Sherlock wondered aloud.

“You seemed dead set on sending him back to her for reasons unknown to him,” Mycroft answered.  “You didn’t seem interested in investigating.  I did try convincing him to talk to you but he tends to be contrary to my suggestions.  Wonder where he learned that from,” he mused with false curiosity and a glare towards Sherlock.   

“He was happy with her.  He didn’t…I _thought_ he didn’t want to know her past.  She’s pregnant with his child.”

For reasons unknown, Mycroft started laughing, and Sherlock was so honestly startled and confused that his mouth dropped open.  Still tittering to himself, Mycroft stood up and left the kitchen.  Sherlock followed after him until he found him again rummaging through a wall safe in his office.  He still had a smug smirk on his face as he brought forth a hefty file.  Turning, Mycroft dropped it on his desk and settled down into his cushioned desk chair and then gesturing at his prize in clear offering. 

“I told you not to pry, Mycroft,” Sherlock condemned, knowing instantly what it was Mycroft presented to him

“Did you really think I wouldn’t try to discover the true identity of _Mary Morstan?_ Come now, Sherlock.  She shot you,” Mycroft stated, voice hard and expression suddenly grim.  “She also, as you very well know, did not call an ambulance.  John didn’t believe you that either, I’ll have you know.  He’s not stupid, your doctor.  Only one call was made to dispatch that night, and it was his.”

“Of course not,” murmured Sherlock.  “But she did avoid a headshot.”

“You’re right, your vena cava was a sterling option.  But that’s beside the point.”  Reaching out, Mycroft flipped open the file and shuffled to a page somewhere in the middle.  “Morstan managed to forge her false identity very well.  It was a professional job; it would have to be, considering she had no qualms to associate with you.  There are absolutely no clues as to who she may have been formally. Judging by her profession it’s unlikely she had any formal records to begin with.  Magnussen apparently had something on her; I had hoped you could access it.”

“You warned me away from Magnussen,” Sherlock pointed out.

“As if you ever listen to what I tell you,” Mycroft counted.  “Unfortunately, we both underestimated Magnussen’s capabilities, to rather unfortunate consequences.”

The brother’s shared a look of silent commiseration. 

“It’s slow work, piecing together Morstan’s past.  There are several jobs that we may connect her to, but there is no proper evidence. We already know she’s an assassin, but who she worked for and how she got her jobs is still unknown.  However, events from more recent are easier to gather, especially when the forgery is not as solid.  It seems Morstan has generated a somewhat less than perfect second identity recently with a curious purpose.”

Mycroft slid the folder towards him, and Sherlock leaned over the desk to read it.  They were medical records, presumably Mary’s, or whomever she was.  Sherlock quickly scanned the page, flipping to the next and then to one more, before his eye’s jerked up to meet Mycroft’s.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

Mycroft leaned against the back of his chair.  “It makes perfect sense, Sherlock.”

“This document is for a woman who’d had undergone surgical sterilization seeking an IVF procedure.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“John didn’t mention that.”

“No, he wouldn’t have.  He had no prior knowledge of the procedure.”

Sherlock blanched.  “Good god, she didn’t…”

Mycroft’s face twisted in disgust.  “Ah, no.  There was a donor used.  So you see, she is not, in fact, carrying his child.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered.  “Almost outlandish. It doesn’t make sense for it to be true.”

“You’re not thinking, Sherlock,” Mycroft stated, chastising.  “Mary felt threatened, I imagine.  Magnussen was breathing down her neck.  With the chance that her secrets may come to light, she wanted to call upon John’s loyalty to keep him focused on her, protect herself from possible fallout.  She would have known about his experience of growing up with an absent father.  Many couples use children as an excuse to stay together.  A faulty reasoning, but then she doesn’t always seem to make the most logical decisions.  I also assume she believed it would prevent John from straying and to ensure she was the priority.”

“Stray?” Sherlock echoed.  “With whom?”

“Dear lord,” Mycroft muttered in pained exasperation.  “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you.”  He shot Sherlock a penetrating gaze.  “To make sure he didn’t stray with _you,_ brother dear.”

Sherlock blinked three times in rapid succession.  “Me?”

“Yes you, you dolt,” another voice suddenly said from the doorway behind him.  Sherlock froze, his breath stuck in his throat but his heart pounding so hard he was sure Mycroft could see it if he weren’t looking over Sherlock’s shoulder at the new presence in his home.

“Ah, Doctor Watson, right on time to take charge of your patient, I see.”

“Actually, Mycroft, I think that I’ve been a bit neglectful.”

“Dear lord, was that innuendo?  That’s really not something I wish to hear regarding my little brother.”

“Take what you will of it.” 

Sherlock’s brain was moving dreadfully slow and most of the conversation went over his head as he tried to understand why on Earth John was here at his brother’s home at half past one in the morning.   Might as well ask then.

“What are you doing here?” he said as he twisted around in his chair.  John was wearing the same outfit from earlier with the addition of deepened bags under his eyes.  But there was a small smile on his face, directed at Sherlock.  He had obviously been standing at the door long enough to hear their conversation and yet he didn’t seem upset.  It was old news to him, then. 

“I contacted him once I was aware you were on the premises,” Mycroft explained.  Sherlock didn’t afford him a look and merely continued to stare at John as he moved out of the doorway and into the room, coming to a stop by Sherlock’s chair and unbelievably resting his hand on the back of his shoulder, giving a light squeeze.    

“I thought you went home.”

“I did, for a bit,” John said.  “I was on my way back to Baker Street when Mycroft phoned me.  Mary knows I was going to keep a watch on you tonight.  You should have been there, resting.”

“Boring,” Sherlock pronounced automatically.  John huffed though not with much heat, obviously expecting the token protest.  Instead, he turned his attentions to Mycroft, reaching behind himself and underneath his jacket to retrieve, of all things, the barrel to a sniper rifle.

“You were right about it being in the ductwork.  Will that be enough?”

John leaned around Sherlock, pressing himself startling close against his side in order to pass Mycroft the barrel.  Sherlock kept himself stock still lest he give into the temptation to press back into the warmth of John’s body.  Even after he’d given Mycroft the sniper barrel, John continued to lean in close, supporting his weight on the back of Sherlock’s chair.  Sherlock reveled in it.

“Yes,” Mycroft announced after rolling the barrel in his hands.  “This should do nicely.  There’s already confirmed matches to the ballistics for Sherlock’s bullet, many of them quite…interesting.  The forensic on this I’m sure will give us several more.”

“So they agreed to the exchange?” John persisted.  Sherlock, despite John’s close proximity, was beginning to feel irritation from the other two in the room speaking over his head. 

“Yes, they found it most acceptable.  It helps that Magnussen wasn’t exactly someone they appreciated.  It was purely perfunctory, you understand.”

Sherlock had his head twisted around so as he could observe John’s repulsed expression.  “Hero treated like a villain.  I’m sure they were pleased they didn’t have to get their hands dirty.”

“They were most agreeable to the terms, as I said,” Mycroft stated civilly.  “I will keep you informed of when we are ready to act.  Are you still capable of the subterfuge?”

“Of course.  But don’t take too long, Mycroft.  The Moriarty broadcast seems to have…frightened her.”

“'Her’?” Sherlock burst in.  “You mean Mary.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder again, and then proceeded to ignore both the question and Sherlock himself as he continued to address Mycroft.  “Anything else?  I’d like to take Sherlock home.” 

Sherlock’s annoyance was slightly mollified by the way John said _home,_ as if it weren’t just Sherlock’s but his as well.

The lights in Mycroft’s office suddenly felt too bright, and 221B Baker Street was the only place he really wanted to be. 

“Let’s go, John,” he said before Mycroft could answer the doctor’s question.  Mycroft quirked both the right corner of his mouth and his left eyebrow. Amusement, category: fond.  Good god he really needed to leave now.  He rose from his chair, both regretting it but feeling like he could breathe again when John’s hand slid off his shoulder at the movement.

Sherlock walked out of the office.  Not once did he look back to see if John would follow, but nevertheless he was aware and a little pleased that John started after him without hesitation. 

“I’ve ordered a car in for you,” Mycroft called out to them.  Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Hey, wait up, Sherlock,” John huffed behind him, drawing up beside Sherlock.  “Your brother certainly didn’t sacrifice any comforts of home, did he?  It’s entirely too easy to get out of breath just walking from one part of the house to the next.”

Sherlock didn’t deign to answer.  His thoughts were too focused on other things to worry about small talk.

Once outside (the front door this time) the ubiquitous black car pulled up to the curb.  Sherlock really would have preferred a cab but he didn’t have the strength to argue.  He opened the rear door and slid all the way to the other side, pressing himself against the interior.  John slid almost just as far, landing himself just past middle.

Obviously he was being purposely obtuse to Sherlock’s cold shoulder.

“I know you’ve got questions,” John said, exercising his capacity for understatements.  Sherlock snorted.

“You conspired with my brother,” Sherlock accused, glaring outside the widow at the largely sleeping London scenery. 

“I thought it was my only option.”

Sherlock barely tamped down the edge of hurt at the implication that Sherlock hadn’t been an option.

“I know what you’re thinking, Sherlock,” John asserted.  “You’re right, you know.  I should have gone to you first.  I should have trusted you.  Just…look at the mess I’ve caused.”

Sherlock couldn’t resist turning to John at the depreciating statement.  John was facing straight ahead, a notable droop to his shoulders and deep frown lines etched into his forehead.

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” Sherlock murmured. 

“We keep making the same mistakes the other makes, Sherlock.  I thought I had to do this on my own.  To protect you.”

“Protect me?”

John’s head was turned towards Sherlock, his gaze steady and firm with Sherlock’s.  “I brought a woman into your life who almost killed you.  I was there at Leinister Gardens, Sherlock.  I saw the intent in her eyes.  She came prepared to silence you permanently.  I think she even wanted to do it.  I knew then that the person I thought I married didn’t exist, and that the wife I did have was one I didn’t want at all.  That’s what I had decided, right then and there, Sherlock, and my mind hasn’t changed since.  If only I had told you that, you wouldn’t have felt the need to shoot Magnussen to protect her.  She…she wasn’t worth it, Sherlock, almost losing you again,” John said, voice a near whisper and sorrow coloring each syllable.  His eyes shifted away from Sherlock’s in what could only be shame. 

“But, it wasn’t for her,” Sherlock disclosed.  “It was for you, John.”  His heart was beating at a quickened pace at the admission, at the secret revealed.  John’s eyes met his again, and held.

“I think I knew that,” John professed quietly.  Something passed between them in that moment; Sherlock felt it like a physical presence as they stared at each other with naked emotion in their eyes.  The moment was broken when the car ran over a bump in the rode, jostling them roughly.  Sherlock realized they were almost at Baker Street.  The moment had passed, but there was still tension in the atmosphere of the car.  A few short minutes later, the driver pulled up against the curb and the two men got out. 

John was the one who unlocked the door.  He still had the key.

Sherlock followed him up the stairs, that tension pulling taut between them.  Once in the sitting room, John shed his coat and hung it up.  He turned to look at Sherlock, who was still standing in the doorway.  Sherlock was just thinking how different the flat looked with John in it.  He filled an empty space there.

“I love you,” Sherlock blurted without warning, and he was instantly mortified, the whites of his eyes expanding.  He hadn’t known how close those words had been, how they had balanced on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the smallest push to fall into the precipice between he and John.  Sherlock’s body went simultaneously hot and cold, wanting to succumb to the flight instinct, find someplace to hide, but it was so low on reserves it was all he could do to stay on his feet and not collapse in a pile of humiliation.

But John, dear John, made no sudden movements, no disgusted facial expressions, or any placating denials.  He barely reacted at all, in fact.  He was not shocked and appalled, or embarrassed, or sympathetically guilty.  He didn’t do anything Sherlock feared he might do when he imagined telling John the secrets of his newly found heart.  It was almost anticlimactic.   

John merely stood in the middle of the sitting room, backlit by the street lights out the window, and he smiled, softly and achingly bright. 

“I knew Sherlock wasn’t actually a girl’s name,” he stated genially, and Sherlock found himself barking out a slightly sheepish laugh.  He suddenly felt lighter than he had in ages, the tension in his shoulders easing as the weight of his inner burden was lifted away by John’s easy acceptance and understanding of what Sherlock had tried to do on the tarmac just hours ago.    

_Pretty damn smart, my John._

John approached him then, an open and contented expression on his face.  “I think I owe you some explanations,” he said mildly.  “C’mon, get your coat off and have a seat.  I’ll get the tea.”

Sherlock shed his Belstaff with ease of practice, hanging it on the coat rack on force of habit as he wasn’t paying much attention to his actions.  Rather, his mind was replaying John’s reaction to his confession.  He accepted it with blasé delight, no awkwardness, no anger, and, most extraordinarily to Sherlock, no rejection.  Sherlock was almost…angry.  This was not what he expected.  What was John playing at?  It riled up a whole new turmoil within Sherlock near equal to the prior agony of knowing something he craved for would never come to be. 

The sounds of the kettle being turned on, of mugs being set out and tea packets being placed in them reached Sherlock from the kitchen.  It sounded so causal, so normal.  The hearth was cold but 221B was still warm.  Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever see his home again earlier today.  He’d been back already, but he’d been jittery and anxious.  Plus, Mary had been there, he thought with a scowl.  221B felt more like home with just he and John there, the sounds of tea being brewed coming from the kitchen.          

It didn’t take long for John to return with two steaming mugs of tea.  Sherlock didn’t even have observe for the signs that it was made just right.  John always made it right.  John offered the mug in his left hand, and as Sherlock reached out to take it, something caught his attention.  Or, rather, a lack of something.

John wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.  There was an indent on his ring finger that indicated it had been there not long previously, but currently it was nowhere in sight.  Sherlock suspected it wasn’t even in the room right now.  Actually, he couldn’t remember if John had worn it while at Mycroft’s.

Sherlock realized he was staring, frozen mid-task of taking the tea from John.  He glanced up at John’s face, and found him to be merely waiting patiently for Sherlock to come to his conclusions.  But after several moments of no movement on Sherlock’s part, John sighed and set the mugs down on the coffee table before sitting on the sofa next to him.

“I didn’t want this conversation with that between us,” he said, left hand splayed out in the air before him to display the naked finger.  “Sometimes it feels like a bad dream.”

“I don’t understand, John.  You loved her enough to marry her, and now you talk as if that meant nothing, as if it’d be nothing to you to throw it all away.”

John stared at him intently, their faces close Sherlock could see each of John’s eyelashes.  “I didn’t love her for the right reasons.  I didn’t marry her for the right reasons.  I thought she was good for me, after you…” he paused, and then said, “after you weren’t there.  And she was, Sherlock, she really was.” 

John’s voice was melancholy, a little wistful.  Sherlock bowed his head and stared at his feet.  But he only caught a glimpse of them before warm fingers pressed underneath his chin and tipped it back up so he could meet John’s eyes again.

“But she was only ever a placeholder.  I didn’t know it when I met her but I should have known it the moment you came back.  I thought it was working, I thought I was having my cake, and eating it too.  A new wife, best friend back from the dead, maybe even a baby on the way.  It should have worked.”

John’s hand, which had still been lightly resting underneath Sherlock’s chin, dropped abruptly down into his lap where it curled in on itself until his knuckles blanched white.  His voice was hard when he spoke again.  “But it wasn’t working, and I lied to myself every damn second that I said it was.  Even before I knew what she truly was, I was miserable.  My life was supposedly perfect, but I wasn’t happy, not like I pretended to be.  And I knew, Sherlock.  I knew why I wasn’t happy, but I was an idiot and pretended I didn’t know.”

Something awoke in John’s eyes, something Sherlock had once seen across chlorinated air by a pool: the eyes of a soldier, of someone ready to fight for something or die trying.

“Everything is my fault, Sherlock, because I couldn’t admit to you that I love you too.”

Sherlock blinked, and blinked again, and replayed those words in his mind multiple times just to ensure he’d heard that right.  He had thought sometimes, before his fall, that those words spoken aloud would be something that might happen, and he’d dwelled on that concept quite often while he was away.  For the longest time he wasn’t sure how’d he respond to a profession like that.  Positively, negatively, indifferently?  He’d never imagined he could be loved like that, but then, he’d never imagined he could love someone like that in return.  John Watson’s entrance into his life was a very tumultuous time for him, the spark that started a fire that melted the ultimately flimsy walls he’d carefully constructed in fear of his own destruction.  And it had nearly destroyed him, the flames nipping at his heels just this afternoon, but here John was now, pulling him from the ashes. 

John watched him now, expression earnest and open, waiting for Sherlock to process his statement.  And when Sherlock did come back to himself fully, the only response he could come up with to express himself was to say, breathlessly, “ _John_.”

John’s hands flew up to cup the sides of Sherlock’s face, and he leaned in to press his forehead against Sherlock’s.  Sherlock pinched his eyes shut at the overwhelming closeness.

“I am so sorry, Sherlock, that I didn’t tell you sooner and saved us this whole mess in the first place,” John voiced vehemently, breath hitching.  Sherlock shook his head slightly.

“It wasn’t just you, John.  I didn’t either.”

John pulled his head away but kept his hands pressed to Sherlock’s face.   “Why should you have, with me parading my lying fiancé around like the arse I am?  Christ, I made you stand as my best man and pretended I didn’t suspect the reason of why you left early!”  John’s face twisted in shame.  Sherlock brought his hands up to cover John’s, leaning a bit more into John’s right palm in self-serving comfort. 

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock murmured.  “It’s fine now.”

 John’s expression evened out and he smiled a little, soft and crooked and wonderful.  “It’s not fine, not yet, but maybe it will be.  I love you, Sherlock, and if you’ll have me, I’m ready to prove it in any way I possibly can.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.  “Any way?”

“Any way,” John affirmed.  Sherlock hummed.

“Kiss me, John.”

John grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way Sherlock liked.  “With pleasure,” he said, leaning in without hesitation and then Sherlock felt his lips on his own and conscious thought was swept away in favor of total sensation.  Sherlock had been kissed before, but not like this, or maybe it was just that Sherlock had never responded this way from being kissed.  John’s lips were a firm pressure on his, massaging his bottom lip in a way that sent heat to the far reaches of Sherlock’s body. 

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the back of John’s head and pressed him in more firmly, his chest coming in contact with John’s.  The slick sensation of John’s tongue sliding along the seam of his lips had him parting them instantly.  John’s tongue was the cleverest muscle of John’s body, Sherlock decided as it expertly navigated the nerves in Sherlock’s mouth and caused lights to flicker behind his closed eyelids.  John pulled away to exhale heavily against Sherlock’s skin and Sherlock grunted in protest.  John chuckled a little under his breath and pressed in again and made Sherlock to forget everything except the friction generated by John’s slightly chapped lips and the heat of his body against Sherlock’s own as they moved with a rhythmic ebb and flow.    

Minutes, maybe hours, days, passed before John pulled away again and pecked once, twice, up Sherlock’s jaw and then truly leaned back to stare at Sherlock with bright and heavy-lidded eyes.  Sherlock felt simultaneously drowsy and euphoric, and was sure he would have been swaying if John wasn’t holding him steady at the shoulders.

“God, Sherlock,” John crooned through kiss-swollen lips.  “You gorgeous man.  You’re exhausted.”

“No’m not,” Sherlock slurred, and tried to tug John closer again.  John smiled and brought his lips to Sherlock’s again, but only for one swift second.  That was not at all satisfying to Sherlock, but he’d deny that his mouth turned down in a pout. 

“C’mere, you,” John said as he tucked Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and heaved him to his feet.  The world felt soft and hazy to Sherlock, and he assessed that perhaps he was a bit overly tired and high on hormones.  He leaned into John. 

John managed to navigate the two of them through the flat and to Sherlock’s bedroom where he gently deposited the waning detective onto his mattress.  Sherlock collapsed backwards in dazed leisure, his minds still ruminating on the remembered sensation John’s lips against his own.  Hands pulled his shoes and socks from his feet.  He hadn’t bothered to turn on the room light. 

“You’re going to wrinkle your suit,” John said from above him, and Sherlock mustered up the energy to sit up and shed his suit jacket and trousers without John’s help.  He was tired and love drunk, not an invalid.  Although, the thought of John helping him take off his clothes wasn’t at all unappealing. 

“Will you stay, John?  Here?  For tonight?”

John studied him carefully.  “Would you like that, Sherlock?”

“More than anything.”

John smiled at him, and Sherlock was instantly fascinated by how much sentiment could be expressed by mere contractions of facial muscles.  He had never seen John smile quite like this.  It was John in love.  There was a whole new part of John Sherlock was now allowed to explore, and he was eager to start. 

“I’ll stay, but just to sleep.  I’m still married, Sherlock,” John disclosed, voice dripping with regret and despondency.  “I don’t want anything more between us to be spoiled by that.  You don’t deserve that.”

“I understand, John,” Sherlock replied.  The thought of John’s marriage still weighed heavily in his gut and left a clogging sensation in the back of his throat.  Now that he had a taste of what it could be between them, he wanted nothing more than to selfishly guard John from anyone else, to keep him all for his own.

"Soon, Sherlock,” John said.  “There is a plan, and I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, and yawned as he slumped back down onto his pillow.  “If Mycroft helped you come up with it then I’m sure it’s full of holes.”

John chuckled, and leaned down to place a kiss on Sherlock’s exposed temple.  Sherlock’s stomach fluttered in delight at the simple gesture.

“I’ll be right back,” John murmured.  Sherlock nodded, utterly delighted at the turn of events his life had taken in one day.  This morning he’d been prepared to leave the country forever, leaving Baker Street and John behind with his pregnant ex-assassin wife.  Now, he was back at Baker Street, and John was here as well.  John had kissed him, willingly, enthusiastically.  Sherlock was expecting him to share his bed with him tonight.

The buzz of his phone going off brought Sherlock out of his near-doze.  John had placed it on his nightstand to charge after he’d pulled it from his discarded trousers.  Frowning, Sherlock reached over and picked it up to see who the message was from.

_Have you two got everything settled now? MH_

Sherlock scowled, and furiously tapped out a message.  _Piss off.  SH_

Once the message was sent, though, Sherlock thought for a moment before he typed out something else.

_Yes.  SH_

It wasn’t an apology or anything, just a simple statement of fact.  His phone buzzed again.

_Sleep well, little brother.  MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dumped his phone back on the nightstand.  John in that moment returned from the bathroom, dressed in his pants and an undershirt.  The door to the hallway was cracked, and, with the bathroom light now off, the faint light from the kitchen was the only thing illuminating the room. John carefully circled the bed and climbed in the opposite side of Sherlock and proceeded to take an excessive amount of time plumping up his (Sherlock’s) pillow before finally settling down.  They both lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling for several moments.

“Er, g’night, Sherlock.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sherlock grumbled as he rolled over and tucked himself into the heat of John’s body, wriggling around a bit before he found a comfortable position.  John’s whole body moved in a relieved sigh as he curled up against Sherlock in return, wrapping an arm around him.

“Much better,” Sherlock declared against John’s chest. 

“Yes,” John agreed.

Sherlock was already asleep.        

 

_fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at estalita.tumblr.com :)


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